Aftershocks
by Questfan
Summary: An AU ending to Sleight of Hand. What if they thought that d'Artagnan had not survived the blast in the tunnels? What impact would that have on Athos?


**This is an idea that popped up in the middle of writing _Brothers in Arms_ and I had to write it down while it was annoying me. **

**It is an AU ending to **_**Sleight of Hand**_** and was totally inspired by the look on Athos' face when he asked Vadim if d'Artagnan was dead. Major kudos to Tom Burke for being able to convey so very much in the quirk of an eyebrow or the curl of a lip while saying very little.**

**It is a standalone chapter and I don't intend to add to it. I hope you like it.**

**Aftershocks**

The repeated blasts of gunpowder sent shockwaves through the ground. He felt them travel up his legs as he pursued Vadim across the courtyard and down into the tunnels. They had managed to keep the King and Queen safe on their walk back from Mass, but had failed to realise Vadim's true plans until the blasts had begun at the palace. He cursed how easily they had been duped, but what concerned him even more was the fact they still had not seen any sign of d'Artagnan since finding blood on the floor.

Treville had said they would make sure the King and Queen were safe and then they would look for d'Artagnan. Never in his time as a musketeer had he wanted to disobey an order more, as he pondered the fate of the boy he felt personally responsible for.

"Where is d'Artagnan?" Athos stared at Vadim as the man skidded to a halt and turned to face his pursuers. He felt his blood pounding in his ears as he waited for the answer to Porthos' question. When it didn't come, he tried again.

"Is he dead?' Somehow he managed to keep his voice even, but his eyes betrayed his fear. He had felt uncomfortable with the plan all along and now he hoped to God that he had been wrong.

Vadim's lips pulled back into a vile smirk, but he still did not answer.

Athos felt his throat constrict and he had to force out the words through dry lips. "Where is he?"

"You will never find his body. At least not in one piece. Multiple tiny pieces maybe, but …"

Before he could finish, Athos launched himself at the man who taunted him. A swift death by sword was too good for him. First he wanted to vent some of his rage on the man who so callously laughed in his face about killing their reckless young friend. He pummeled a fist repeatedly into Vadim's face in a vain attempt to remove the smirk. He felt Porthos' grip on his arms and struggled to throw him off. He threw one more punch before Porthos managed to drag him away.

Vadim crawled backwards in the dirt and somehow managed to smile at Athos through bloodied teeth and lips.

"I saw right through him at the Chatelet. His blood is on _your_ hands. _You_ sent him to his death."

Athos reacted blindly as he pulled his sword from its scabbard and charged at the man. In a completely uncharacteristic loss of control, Athos swung at the vile man and before he knew it, he had left Vadim's lifeless body lying on the ground in front of him. He stared in shock at what he had done, but there was no hint of regret. It did nothing to wipe away his own failings in the matter, however. He threw his sword to the ground beside him and tried desperately to regain control of his breathing.

"_We could have stopped him." _His own words condemned him as they rang in his ears.

He stared at his hands as if expecting them to start showing spatters of blood.

D'Artagnan's blood.

He was dead and Vadim was right. It was all his fault. Another young man he had failed to protect.

* * *

He slowly drifted back into consciousness. The first thing he became aware of was how hard it was to draw a breath. His mouth tasted of dirt and smoke and something metallic. As his senses kicked in a little more, he realised it was blood.

He pushed himself upright out of the dirt and spat out a mouthful of crud. The movement sent his head into a wild spin and he clutched at his head to make it stop. A bolt of lightning shot through his skull where he had touched it. His fingers came away sticky and he frowned at the blood streaked across them.

An image floated in front of him of a man lying in a pool of blood. No … it was a rapidly spreading puddle. Torrents of water poured over them both and he felt himself drowning in the bloodied mess.

He squeezed his eyes shut to stop the crazy spinning and forced himself up on to his haunches. Every part of him ached with the strain. His ribs protested loudly and it took a few minutes for him to keep steady enough to actually stand up and start moving. As he stumbled sideways he stepped on something. For some strange reason a sword lay on the ground and a little further away was a belt. He gathered them up and managed to buckle up the belt. It felt totally natural to slide the sword back into place and he absently patted it as he finished fitting it.

He looked down at the rest of him and found nothing there that identified him. The clothing he was wearing was shredded and stained with blood, streaks of mud and something dark. It took a moment longer to realise he also smelled of smoke. His mind could not conjure up anything to explain his tattered state. It suddenly occurred to him that he also had no idea of where he was. Or where he should go. He just felt an urgent need to move. Staying where he was wasn't safe.

* * *

Treville watched from a distance as Athos slumped over a bridge railing. The contents of his stomach were already in the water below. The man appeared on the verge of collapse. Aramis had already filled him in on what had transpired with Vadim and the Captain knew exactly what was going on in Athos' mind. He was laying the blame for d'Artagnan's death squarely at his own door. He had objected to the plan to use d'Artagnan as bait, but had eventually reluctantly gone along with the whole charade. If anybody was to blame, Treville knew exactly where to look. He had used the eagerness of a raw recruit and had seriously miscalculated. He slowly walked towards his lieutenant and hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder. Athos did not respond until he began to speak.

"His name will be remembered with honour."

"Honour!" Athos fairly spat the word back at him. "There was no honour in this! We had no business sending him in there. He is just … he _was _just a farm boy! It was Musketeer business."

"_We could have stopped him." _He could not shake the accusation as his mind replayed the moment they had made the decision to send d'Artagnan to his death.

He shrugged Treville's hand off and marched away from him. Porthos and Aramis had already started over when they saw Athos' response and Treville just waved them on.

"Look out for him."

The two friends chased after the angry figure stalking off down the alleyway and wondered just how they could possibly ever make things right again. For the immediate future, they simply needed to focus on keeping Athos from doing anything stupid.

* * *

The streets all looked the same. No matter which way he staggered, nothing looked familiar. He had no idea where he was going and he just let his feet take him where ever they wanted to. The pounding in his head was relentless. Tiny spots of light floated in the air before his eyes. He had already tried to shake them away and the resultant dizziness had left him reeling into the gutter. What little substance had been in his stomach had erupted with force and he sagged to the ground in agony. Everything hurt. As he lay on the cobblestones he tried to make sense of what had happened to him. His mind was swirling as fast as his stomach apparently and nothing would stay put long enough for him to focus on. He pulled an arm over his head and tried to control the wild sensation of movement as he was fairly certain he was not actually moving. He heard footsteps hurrying down the street and thought he heard voices. He didn't care. He just wanted the world to stop spinning.

* * *

Athos stalked through the streets with no real plan of where he was going. He just needed to get away. Away from Vadim' accusations. Away from Treville's platitudes. Away from his friends. After all, being a friend of the almighty Athos could be deadly.

Aramis and Porthos hurried behind him and occasionally called out to him. It was clear he was trying to shake them, but neither of them was prepared to leave him to his own devices.

"Athos, wait!" Aramis tried again, knowing it was probably futile. He was surprised when Athos spun on his heel and turned to face them.

"Leave me alone!" he growled. The fury on his face was expected, but no less unsettling.

"We can't do that," Porthos tried reaching out a hand and Athos glared at him. "You need your friends."

"My friends don't need me! It gets you killed if you stay around me too long! Now leave!"

"_We could have stopped him." _

Athos shook his head in disgust at his own weakness. "But we didn't!" he muttered.

He turned and continued his march to nowhere.

The two musketeers simply kept pace with him at a distance. None of them paid any attention to the drunk lying crumpled in the gutter.

* * *

Athos?

He knew that name. Somewhere in the swirling fog in his brain he knew that he had heard that name before. Suddenly it fell into place. Athos was a murderer who was shot by a firing squad. So the Athos they were calling to was obviously somebody else. Not that it mattered. He tried to pull himself upright and very slowly began to stagger down the street again.

* * *

Treville sat at his desk with his head in his hands. Athos' vitriolic comments sounded in his ears and he found himself reaching for the bottle on his desk. Athos was right. He had sent a boy to his death. And a gruesome death at that. Vadim had made it clear that d'Artagnan was close enough to one of the explosions to be torn to pieces. So logically that meant he was either unconscious at the time or bound and unable to leave. Treville prayed it was the first option and the lad had not known what was coming. He poured himself a glass of brandy and settled back in his seat. His hand shook as he raised the glass in a silent toast to the boy he had failed.

* * *

A woman of the night slowed down to take a closer look at him. He looked a little wet behind the ears, but she appreciated the shape of his lanky silhouette against the wall. He stared at her in confusion. A woman's face floated in front of his eyes and he flinched as she slapped him. Well in his memory she had slapped him. She had said something about her best dress. Her face was indignant and … beautiful. The real woman in front of him gave up on trying to entice the drunken young man and sauntered away up the street. He watched her leave and tried to remember who the woman in the memory was. She really was beautiful.

* * *

Athos stared at the glass in front of him. Aramis and Porthos sat two tables away as he refused to allow them to sit in the booth with him. He did not deserve the comfort they offered. What was truly strange was that so far he had not been able to take a mouthful of wine. He did not deserve the comfort it offered either. If he drank himself into oblivion, he avoided the punishment he did deserve.

"_We could have stopped him." _

He had no right to allow himself to block out his guilt by drinking himself into a stupor.

* * *

He wandered down another twisting laneway and tried to find a reference point he recognised. It all looked the same. And none of it looked familiar. The pounding in his head was unrelenting. The ache in his bones told him his body was hurting, but he had nothing to make it stop. And the fear in the pit of his stomach was growing. He had no idea where he was going. Or why. He lurched against the nearby wall and tried to calm his racing heartbeat.

Two men wandered past at the end of the lane. They wore familiar blue leather and something about them made his breath quicken. It took a few minutes after the men had gone before he recalled something. They were musketeers. The word brought a sneer to his lips.

"_I'm no musketeer! They betrayed me and I hate them for it!" _

Rage rose up from his insides as he remembered being chained by his wrists and thrown in a cell. The reason why escaped him, but he knew with certainty it was because of musketeers. In his scrambled brain it was the first piece of information that he was sure of. He looked down at his mangled wrists and knew the truth of it. What else could have left the skin so chafed and raw, but manacles?

* * *

Athos pushed the bottle away and stood up from the booth. He glared at them as Aramis and Porthos also pushed to their feet.

"I told you two to leave me alone!"

"Sorry to remind you, but Treville's orders trump yours." Porthos shrugged apologetically.

Athos resigned himself to the fact they were not going to give up, but it did not mean he had to converse with them. Or draw any comfort from them.

He stalked out of the door and hurried off down the street. It soon became clear to the men trailing behind him that he wasn't headed back to the garrison. He was making his way to Bonacieux's house.

As he walked, Athos kept replaying the arguments in his head.

"_What could possibly go wrong?"_

"_It is too dangerous!"_

_"_We could have stopped him."__

He heard Constance's accusatory tone as she glared at them all in fury, while putting out wine and glasses.

"_How many ways can a man think of to get himself killed?"_

By the time he stopped in the courtyard outside her home, he still had no idea what he was going to say to explain the untimely death of her lodger. He stood and stared at the closed door, but made no move to knock. Aramis and Porthos stopped short and waited silently. He had made it clear he did not want to talk with them and they had made it equally clear they weren't leaving him. As they contemplated how the standoff may end, Aramis noted movement at the upstairs window. Constance had seen them and even from there, her expression said it all. She knew!

* * *

He turned one more corner and even though he still could not tell where he was, for some reason he felt drawn there. Strangely though, so did the musketeers. Three of them stood across the courtyard, obviously standing guard for someone. They had their backs to him and he debated trying to bypass them or go back the way he had come. Before he could decide, the woman he had wondered about appeared in a doorway. She was arguing with one of the musketeers. He couldn't make out the conversation, but he saw her pound angry fists on his chest and he grabbed at her wrists. Something in him snapped and before he knew what he was doing, he had drawn his sword and was charging towards her.

* * *

Constance could see them gathered in the courtyard. She knew. It was clear by the defeated slump of Athos' shoulders. Her mind told her if she stayed away then she did not have to hear the awful truth. Her heart told her she had to be sure. If her own parting words to d'Artagnan had come to life. Before she realised, she was flinging open the front door and Athos was staring at her from dead eyes. She threw herself at him and beat her fists on him in a vain attempt to make him stop talking. He reached for her hands and tried to offer something. The fact he had nothing to give was not lost on her. That neither Porthos nor Aramis had stepped in to deny it made her stomach curl into a knot.

Suddenly she caught movement behind them and looked up to see d'Artagnan charging towards them, his sword aimed squarely at Athos' back!

"Let her go!"

Athos reacted on instinct and had his sword in his hand before he knew it. He faltered in disbelief as he found himself having to block a wild swing from his protégé. Who apparently wasn't dead!

"D'Artagnan! Stop!" Aramis screamed at him as the boy took another wild swing in Athos' general direction. It was so misguided it would have earned him a rebuke in the training yard.

He had been there before. All three of them had drawn swords against him. At the same time! He suddenly saw her face in the midst of it all. She was shouting at them. The images swirled crazily and he felt the ground tilting towards him as blood pounded through his head. His sword felt heavy in his hand and he staggered sideways.

"D'Artagnan!"

He knew that name, but not who was calling it.

Athos easily swatted his sword out of his hand before flinging his own aside and grabbing for the boy. The last image d'Artagnan saw before descending into blackness was tears on the face of the man in front of him. He had no idea why a musketeer would be crying and his mind gave up trying to work it out.

Porthos grasped at him as d'Artagnan began to sag in front of them. He felt the sticky feel of drying blood on his hands as he lowered the boy to the ground. The tattered remains of d'Artagnan's shirt told its own story and he growled in anger. Aramis was already running expert hands over the boy's head, checking for something to explain what had just happened. When his hand came away covered in blood, he closed his eyes momentarily before quickly issuing orders. Constance leaned against Athos as she watched her lodger being lifted gently and carried inside. She saw her own questions reflected in his eyes. What just happened?

* * *

Aramis washed the mess from his hands and wiped them clean on a rag. He looked as his patient slept soundly in front of him and he debated waking him up again to check his responses or leaving him to sleep. D'Artagnan's face was half buried in a pillow, but the exposed side was deeply bruised. The back of his head was a mess where Aramis had been forced to cut away hair to deal with the savage wound underneath. It certainly explained the boy's strange behaviour earlier. He had felt immense relief when d'Artagnan had woken up during his ministrations and seemed to know who he was, if not where he was.

His eyes roamed over his handiwork on d'Artagnan's back. The boy had recently joked about how Aramis used his scars to woo women. Well now he was going to have a selection of his own to use on unsuspecting ladies. Shrapnel wounds and deep bruising left his back a mottled jigsaw. Thankfully most of the ribs were intact, albeit still very bruised. He suspected a couple were maybe cracked, but that remained to be seen once the lad woke up and he could examine them better. Whatever the case, Aramis knew it would be a while before he could swing a blade at full strength.

The truly sickening part though was his wrists. They were shredded. He knew as he dressed them, their young friend had been bound and he had clearly been desperate to escape his bonds. Aramis' stomach lurched as he knew the truth of it. Vadim had tied him and left him with the gunpowder. The callousness of the act was simply unbelievable when a single shot would have dispensed with the man he believed to be a traitor. It would have been a merciful death for an enemy; instead Vadim had chosen a vindictive one. Aramis refused to allow his mind to speculate on how close d'Artagnan had really been when the powder went off.

Athos stood to one side and watched intently. "Will he live?"

Aramis nodded slowly. "He will. No thanks to Vadim!"

"Or us!" The bitterness in the tone was crystal clear.

"_We could have stopped him."_

Aramis saw the dark look flitter across his friend's face and knew it would be a long time before Athos forgave himself for this one. If ever.

Athos stared at the wounds on d'Artagnan's wrists as Aramis gently salved and dressed them. He clenched his fists in fury. If he had not already done so, he would have hunted down Vadim and killed him.

"So it's true!" The two men looked up as Treville strode through the door, followed by Porthos. The Captain allowed himself a relieved smile, which quickly shriveled as he took in the boy's injuries.

Constance stood on the landing and tried to steady her breathing. She had been furious with d'Artagnan when she realised he was only playing the part of a condemned criminal. It had caught her by surprise how scared she was. What was truly breathtaking was when she had seen Athos at her door and knew he was coming to give her bad news. Her reaction was overwhelming. She held a bowl of fresh water in her hands and found it was all she could do to hold it steady as the tremors began afresh.

Finally, she pulled herself together and stepped into the room again. It wasn't the first time d'Artagnan had lain on that bed, injured and unconscious. The last time, he had awoken and left to challenge Athos to a duel. She frowned at the recklessness of that decision, but she had come to understand his motives, misguided as they had turned out to be.

This time was different. This time he had deliberately placed himself in harm's way and these men had let him! All just to prove something to them! Men could be so utterly, wretchedly …. stupid!

She watched as Athos' attention never wavered from the lad's face. Guilt was clearly etched into his features.

Aramis had a calming hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, mindful of his multiple wounds. The physical contact seemed to be important to him and she wondered if it was part of his healer's nature or if he was just naturally more tactile than his friends.

Treville leaned against the window and stared into the street below, lost in his own thoughts and recriminations.

Porthos looked around the small room and in spite of the situation, he smiled at the collection of faces there. How did one simple farm boy from Gascony manage to find his way into all their affections in such a short time?

Although, when that same boy woke up he was going to be having a very long chat about drawing a sword against Athos.

Again!

Did the lunatic never learn?

* * *

_So there you have it. Just an idea that would not go away. From the way I look at the episodes, I think it was where Athos really began to feel something for the young man who had unexpectedly turned up in their lives.  
_


End file.
